loud and clear
by dancingpenss
Summary: Race has history with Brooklyn. Spot has a history of being a loner. They meet when they're twelve, and the most unlikely friendship between two newsies is born. Thank God they're soulmates, or Spot would have decked Race, Race would have cussed him out, and it would have taken them a whole year longer to become friends. / Spot Conlon and Racetrack Higgins, and their beginning.
1. manhattan

**loud and clear**

* * *

 **pt. 1: manhattan**

* * *

 _This is Brooklyn turf. You ain't Brooklyn, so who the hell're you?_

Racetrack often has a good chuckle over his soulmark, having been born an' raised in Brooklyn. Sure, he's Manhattan through and through these days, but he has more'n a bit of Brooklyn in his blood.

It's scribbled up the side of his right hand and along his pinky finger in letters so small it's a miracle they can even be read. Race is pretty good at reading in general, though, so it doesn't bother him.

Most newsies know their soulmarks by heart, if they have them, and many can decipher the headlines with a bit of effort. Many more, like Race, can read the whole paper front to back—and he often does, scrounging up stories from the middle pages to hawk when they are more interesting than the headline of the day.

At least, he did when he was still a little newsie. He'd been at the lodging house since he was seven, and they paired the little ones off with older kids until they could sell on their own.

When he had turned ten, and was deemed old and experienced enough to start selling on his own, he had used that card for a whole month or so. Then he started to sell his papes at Sheepshead. Race left his old tricks behind in the Manhattan street he used to frequent, no longer needing a more interesting headline—in fact, he usually doesn't need a headline at all anymore.

No, these days Race sells his papes with the racing odds.

His first day selling at Sheepshead, he had been dared to hop the trolleys and carriages all the way to the races to sell, and had readily taken on the adventure. (Skittery, who had dared him, had been sure that no ten-year-old newsie would venture so far into Brooklyn alone. Oak, the Manhattan leader, had shouted up a storm about it when he discovered that Skittery had sent little Antonio Higgins into Brooklyn and no one had seen him since.)

Race did not share Oak's qualms about Brooklyn. As long as he stayed out of the Brooklyn newsies' ways, he knew he'd be fine. They could be big and tough, but he'd scraped by picking pockets on the Brooklyn streets for three months before he stumbled into Jack Kelly.

Jack had been wandering onto the Brooklyn Bridge in search of one of the Manhattan littles who had wandered off. Jack found Race instead, noticed his hollow cheeks and empty grin, gave him half an apple, and took him to the Manhattan lodging house. Oak found him a newsie's cap and a bed, and the next morning he'd been out selling papes.

Point being, Race knew his way around Brooklyn.

He made his way to Sheepshead Bay, and the tracks, in about an hour, which wasn't bad, considering he had only a vague idea of where the tracks were. He set up near the betting booth, where he could watch the races and sell, too. If he did a little more watching than selling, well, he was still small and cute back then and could still move his papers without too much effort.

A whim of fate on that first day caused him to stumble across the trick to selling at the races. A man who was heading over to the betting booth asked for the odds on a particular thoroughbred, and Race was hawking the chances on horses instead of the headlines before he knew it.

He sold all his morning editions before ten and mosied on over to the nearest distribution center. When the wagon for the World rolled around and the afternoon edition came out, he sold out before three, hopped carriages across the Brooklyn Bridge back into Manhattan, and arrived back at the lodging house three hours earlier than usual.

This was actually fortuitous because he'd been off Manhattan turf for hours and Oak was tearing his hair out with worry. The huge, bighearted leader was even thinking about swallowing his pride to go visit Brooklyn and ask around about Race himself.

After Oak had finished throwing his fit about Race disappearing _without so much as a word, or a see ya, Oak, and did ya even sell ya papes, ya little moron, or did someun' beat 'em off ya, if I gotta spot ya tomorra 'cause Skittery and you's is right fools, I'm stickin' ya back with Pages to sell, I don't care whether ya's ten or not—_

Anyhow, once Oak was done and Race explained that he had in fact, sold his papers, Oak left the lodging house to go finish selling and Race sat around, enjoying his leisure time until the other newsies got back.

He had a captive audience for the tale of his adventure, and Skittery offered him a half a sandwich with a guilty grimace and a "Didn't think you's really gonna do it, 'Tonio, sorry."

All his friends clamored to learn how he had sold out so fast, but he would only grin and say, "The racetrack's just good luck," and nothing else.

Most of them shrugged it off as a fluke, but after promising Oak he'd be careful, Race went back to Sheepshead again and again, traveling through half of Manhattan and Brooklyn to get there, and always selling out fast.

"How d'you do it, Tony?" One of the younger newsies, Itey, asked.

"Let's hear it, 'Tonio," Jack, who was just a bit older than Race at eleven, demanded, grinning.

"Racetrack's good luck, fellas," he replied, shrugging.

"Y'know, ya keep sayin' that, it's gonna stick," Jack teased. "Racetrack. I dunno, not half bad."

Race grinned. "Not half bad at all, Jackie."

And Racetrack he was. Within two weeks, not a newsie remembered that they had called him Antonio for three years.

So although Racetrack lives in Manhattan now, he rides in style to Sheepshead every day and breathes the Brooklyn air.

Who does he think he is?

The only newsie in New York smart enough to cash in at the racetracks, that's who.

Race sits on the edge of the Brooklyn Bridge, his feet dangling over the edge, and gives the mark on his hand a glance. He lifts his unlit cigar to his lips, grinning. His soulmate is in for a shock for sure.


	2. brooklyn

**loud and clear**

* * *

 **pt. 2: brooklyn**

* * *

 _The only newsie who sells at this fine establishment, a'course! Which begs the question, who are you?_

Spot Conlon isn't very good at making friends.

At nearly eleven, he is one of the best sellers in the Brooklyn lodging house, and even Sting, the King of Brooklyn, knows it. Spot is on his radar to be second in command by the time Sting ages out. And for a shorter than average ten-year-old, Spot can soak as good as he gets, unless the odds are too uneven. Even some of the bigger kids are a little nervous around him because he can be a bit prickly.

That's the problem, really; Spot is prickly, and there is no way around it. Nobody in the Brooklyn house has more than one or two fast friends, but Spot…Spot doesn't have anybody. He isn't afraid to admit it to himself: he's pretty lonely, and doesn't exactly have the friendliest personality to boot. Of course, he would never admit it to anyone else; God forbid they know he's a pathetic loner.

Spot's candle of hope, however, is the soulmark wrapped around his right bicep. 1): His soulmate is a newsie, too. Which means that if Spot soldiers on and sells papes for as long as he can, someday he'll run into them. 2): Spot's soulmate sells somewhere that nobody else does, so the chances of meeting them are higher with every new place Spot sells. (Spot's newsie name came from the old leader, Osprey, complaining that he couldn't ever be tracked down because he never sold in the same spot twice.)

And yeah, Spot is supposed to be tough—all the Brooklyn kids are—but he can't help but hope that when he meets his soulmate, they'll get on the way Spot doesn't really get on with anybody; that maybe they'll even be fast friends like Sparrow and Coal, like Osprey and Sting were before Osprey aged out.

He spends his days in a blur of routine: wake up, think about soulmate, buy papes, sell papes, think about soulmate, buy food, eat food, think about soulmate, buy his bed in the lodging house, sleep, dream about soulmate. This is only interrupted sometimes by: insult somebody, get soaked. Or maybe: get insulted, soak somebody.

It's not an easy life, but it's not always a hard life either, and, well, what else could he possibly ask for?

Spot has everything he needs, for the most part. He's really good at what he does, he's on the rise through the Brooklyn ranks, and he can play a mean hand of poker.

He's just…looking forward to having someone to play a good game with who doesn't get nervous or irritated around him.

Spot leans against a strut on the Brooklyn Bridge a few down from some moron kid who is dangling his feet over the side. He sighs and slings his bag of papers over his shoulder as he stares out into the water. Someday.

Someday.


	3. sheepshead

**loud and clear**

* * *

 **pt. 3: sheepshead**

* * *

Race is twelve when a short, grumpy soulmate rolls his eyes right into Race's life.

It's a clear Saturday morning in May; not too cold, not too hot. Just the kind of day Race wishes it could always be, but that only happens once in a while. It's the perfect kind of day to meet your soulmate.

Race washes his face extra-briskly that morning, and wears his favorite shirt with the blue, green, and white checkers. He joshes around with Albert, buys more papers than usual, and waves goodbye to Jack and Crutchie from the back of a particularly lavish carriage which is heading toward the Brooklyn Bridge.

He hops off his last carriage when it turns in the wrong direction just a couple blocks away from the races, and doesn't bother catching another one. The sun on his face is warm and inviting, and Race feels like nothing in the world could stop him; his cigar jauntily gripped between his teeth, his paperbag thrown over his shoulder, and his cap tilted at a rakish angle.

He strides through the crowds, not even bothering to reach his usual bench in-between the saddling paddock and the betting stands before he starts hawking cheerfully.

"Get this mornin's racin' odds here, folks, get your mornin' odds! 1-5 on Blue Feather, 1-9 on Salamandrotto, get your papes right here to find out the rest! A penny a pape, get 'em 'ere!"

"Racetrack, my boy," one of Race's regulars booms, his beer belly jiggling with the force of his voice. "I hear that Firestorm is set to win from behind today. Whaddya think?"

"Nah, Mr. Sorver," Race shrugs, discarding the idea after a moment as he hands him a pape in exchange for a nickel. "Thank ya! He's a front runner, don't get me wrong, but he'll tire out too easily; he was out last week for a sore hoof. I'm gonna be right shaken if he makes it in the money at all!"

A few of the men surrounding Race laugh at that, their faces crinkling in amusement as they wait to swap their pennies for his papers.

One ruffles his hair. "You're a smart one and no mistake, kid!"

"Thanks, fellas, thank ya," Race repeats, dishing out papers until he runs out of customers and continues on toward his bench. "Papes for the real bettors, papes with the odds! A penny a pape, 1-6 on Whiskey Forest, 1-3 on Inkstreak, get ya odds right here!"

"Think I'll be going for a daily double this mornin', Race! Wish me luck!" One of his regulars approaches, flicking him a dime.

Race catches it easily, sliding it in his bag and handing the man his paper. "Thanks! Good luck, Mr. Cavendish, sir!"

"Thanks, son!"

A tall man in a slick hat gives Race a whole half dollar, and he has to rummage around for change, trying to hand it back with the man's paper.

"Nah, keep it, kid," the man waves the money off, taking the folded paper with a grin. "My nephew sells papers, I know that'd make his day!"

"You're sure right, mista! Thanks a ton, and good luck!" Race doffs his hat, performing a little bow with an excited grin.

An entire two bits! That's as much as he usually makes in two days, if he sells all fifty of his papes every day. The generous man must have been rich, or something, Race decides.

Race is more than halfway out of his morning editions and has satisfied nearly all his morning regulars when he sits down on the stone bench to take a breather, sorting money into his different pockets. He chews on the end of his cigar thoughtfully, and flips through the racing section in the paper, noting some of the odds with interest. Race wonders if his good luck will extend to winning a couple bets, or if trying to bet will just turn his good day into a sour one.

He decides to put it off until the afternoon, and has only just stood back up to resume selling when someone from behind him to his right clears their voice.

"This is Brooklyn turf," The voice announces with a certain air of suspicion. "You ain't Brooklyn, so who the hell're you?"

Race freezes, his heart racing, before sliding on a grin and pivoting to face the owner of the voice. "The only newsie who sells at this fine establishment, a'course! Which begs the question, who are _you?_ "

"Ya _jokin'_ ," the kid in front of him breathes, his eyes widening as he looks Race up and down. His knuckles are white on the strap of his paperbag. "I was gonna _deck_ ya. I…I almos' decked my…."

Race is having a hard time believing it himself. Such a long time he's spent wondering, and now, his soulmate is right in front of him: dark hair, blue eyes, and a slowly spreading smirk on the face of a squirt shorter than Race himself.

"Soulmate? Yeah, I ain't jokin'," Race says, pretending like he isn't just as shocked. "They calls me Racetrack. What's ya name?"

"Spot," Race's soulmate says, letting go of his bag finally to stick out his hand hesitantly. "Spot Conlon."

"Well, Spot, I sees you're pleased ta meet me," Race jokes, shaking Spot's hand. "Guess I should be sayin' thanks for not opening with a hard one to my jaw."

Spot looks affronted. "Well, it ain't my fault you's where you ain't supposed to be! I'd know if you was Brooklyn, and you ain't, so you gotta go."

Race scoffs, widening his stance and crossing his arms. "Yeah, as if! I been sellin' at Sheepshead for two years. I ain't about to ditch my selling spot for no reason. Your King a'Brooklyn—Sting Scarvish, ain't it?—he never brought up the issue before."

"Sting don't _know_ you're selling here," Spot points out. "I didn't think anybody bothered tryin' ta sell at the races, much less some kid from—what, Midtown? Queens?"

Race wags a warning finger. "Hey, don't be insultin'! I'm outta Manhattan these days. Ain't _from_ there, but that's where my lodgin' an' my friends is, ya know?"

"Well then, where ya from?"

Race grins, gesturing around them. "Where ya think, moron?"

"Brooklyn? No way," Spot huffs, his arms crossing automatically. His sleeves are rolled up high and Race's eyes are drawn to the spiral of black words he can see inked around Spot's arm.

Spot notices him looking after only a moment and yanks down his sleeve. "Hey! Don' stare, _Racetrack_."

"Whateva," Race scoffs. "Anyway, believe it or not, but I'm from Brooklyn, technically, so I can't see you havin' any good reason ta kick me out."

Spot's eyes narrow, but before he can speak, Race hurriedly yanks his bag back over his neck and crosses, flinging his arm around Spot's shoulders.

"Now," Race says cheerily, waving his other hand with his cigar meaningfully. "We sellin' together today or what, Spotty?"

Spot seems like he has a slight case of whiplash from the sudden change in conversation and tone. His shoulders tense under Race's arm, obviously unused to people with Race's tactile nature. "I—uh, what?"

Race rolls his eyes in the way that only a twelve-year-old can do. "You an' me. Sellin', Spotty."

"Don't call me Spotty," Spot protests, his confusion giving way to belligerence.

"Sure thing, Spotty," Race snickers, much to Spot's surprise, and drags Spot along toward the betting tables. "Ya know, I'm thinkin' I got some good luck today, now that you're here an' all."

The corners of Spot's mouth twitch up, despite himself. "Yeah?"

Race grins. He and his soulmate just might get along. "Yeah."


End file.
